


a curse between us

by Feanoriel



Series: A Tale of Fëanor and Nerdanel [8]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, I hope this part is handled well, Introspection, Motherhood isn't simple, No character bashing, Postpartum Depression, Pregnancy, References to Depression, Sort Of, it's not fault of anyone, just ... everything is very complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feanoriel/pseuds/Feanoriel
Summary: In which the birth of the twins Amrod and Amras happens, and in which, after years of loving marriage,  Fëanor and Nerdanel have their first contrasts.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Maedhros | Maitimo & Nerdanel
Series: A Tale of Fëanor and Nerdanel [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1488221
Comments: 20
Kudos: 34





	a curse between us

**Author's Note:**

> A very important note: it’s not my aim to character-bash Fëanor or Nerdanel. I love both of them equally, and I think both of them are complicated characters with a lot of grey shades in them. I only want to write about the difficult moments in which both of them began to grow apart, and how both of them had their own part in this deed. I only wanted to give my version to an obscure and difficult episode of canon like the birth and the naming of the twins. I hope you will appreciate that! 
> 
> This fic is beta-read by @ Cherepashka, thank you so much!

I, I've been waiting for someone like you  
But now you are slipping away  
Why, why does fate make us suffer?  
There's a curse between us, between me and you  
[Within Temptation-What have you done]

_The two twins were both red-haired. Nerdanel gave them both the name Ambarussa – for they were much alike and remained so while they lived. When Fëanor begged that their name should at least be different Nerdanel looked strange, and after a while said: “Then let one be called Umbarto, but which, time will decide.”_

_Fëanor was disturbed by this ominous name (‘Fated’) and changed it to Ambarto. But Nerdanel said: “Umbarto I spoke, yet do as you wish. It will make no difference.”_ [History of Middle Earth, Vol. XII, The Peoples of Middle Earth, The Shibboleth of Fëanor]

*

This pregnancy was different from the others. 

Bearing my other children had been a different matter: I had felt them growing inside me like blossoms in spring, their strength like a foaming stream. This one, instead, weighed me down like a hard piece of rock. It was like this pregnancy was depriving me of all my strength, not leaving me enough energy to go in my studio and try to sculpt something, or even simply go for a long walk. I spent most of my days in bed, watching from the windows the wind that moved the leaves of the trees of our garden, trying to sketch to chase away the boredom. But even so, all the sketches I made were dull and without inspiration, surely not something I could make a statue of. 

And it was in moments like this, when I simply lay in my bed, my mind too full of grim thoughts and deprived of the creative energy I always felt before making one of my statues, that I asked myself if I had truly done the right thing, in asking Fëanáro to conceive another child. 

It wasn’t as if I didn’t love the child I bore in my belly, of course. I loved the little seed of life that was slowly growing within me, but all the same, I was concerned for how much my health would be affected by this pregnancy. I had begun to regret my decision, this decision I made in an impulsive moment, out of my wish for a daughter.

A daughter of Fëanáro, a young girl with his incomparable fire inside of her, who would have been as a Queen among the Noldor: it was all I longed for, once. I knew that Fëanáro had the same wish, especially after he had seen the two daughters of his brothers, one dark and silver like a flower of Telperion, the other golden and radiant like a flower of Laurelin.

But now … now with my strength slowly sapped by the child I bore in my belly, I told myself it didn’t matter how much I longed for a child, boy or girl all the same, I never wanted to sacrifice my life and my will to live for bearing a child. I had never asked to be another Míriel.

Sometimes I found myself silently crying in the pillow, fearing my own lack of energy and inspiration, wondering if one day I would end up in Mandos like Míriel herself had decided, unwilling to live again, completely spent in bearing Fëanáro in her belly.

I remembered every time I’d laughed and reassured Fëanáro’s fears of losing me, telling him that I wasn’t going to die, that I wasn’t going to leave him, any time I bore in my belly one of our sons. But this time, I could feel it was somehow different. Nothing was able to make me smile again, not the sweets that Fëanáro made for me, or the scent of the flowers Tyelkormo brought to me. They were kind gestures, aye, but they only made me feel even sicker, my belly so heavy and sore.

And if that wasn’t enough, there was always the dream, of course.

It didn’t come every night, but it recurred enough to make me worried.

The beginning was always quiet: I was alone, on the shores of Alqualondë, my feet naked and a long white dress loose on my pregnant belly. I walked in the water, feeling it cool against my feet.

And then, suddenly, everything changed. I saw the clouds change from white to red, the sky suddenly painted in blood, and I could see fire in the distance, like something was burning far away across the sea. And in front of my astounded eyes, the fire only became greater and greater, as if to devour all the sky with red, and the wind brought with it the crackle of flames and the distant cry of a child.

That was the exact moment in which my heart stopped. For I _knew_ , I knew in the deep of my desperate heart that that was the cry of _my_ own child, the child I bore in my belly. I screamed and desperately ran deeper into the water, towards the cruel fire, under the uncaring red sky, but it was all useless, and the cries of my child died in the distance, and I woke up covered in cold sweat. 

Whenever I woke, heart racing in my chest, I searched for Fëanáro lying next to me, his body warm and relaxed against my hands. Sometimes, I woke him and he quietly consoled me with tender kisses and gentle hands, and I fell asleep in his arms, his heart beating with the same rhythm as mine.

But even Fëanáro’s presence was unable to completely chase away my fears. And I couldn’t help but notice that, in my dreams, it was always fire that threatened my child.

“ _What does that mean?_ ” I asked myself, one night when I couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling in silence, listening to Fëanáro’s calm breath. “ _My child, you’ve been conceived by Fëanáro’s seed, in you burns his own fire. Why you should fear the fire, then?_ ”

That was a question to which I had no answer.

And those were the good nights. On the bad nights, I would wake to find myself alone in our bed, Fëanáro not next to me but still closed in his laboratory in the middle of the night, lost in some project of his own. On those nights I simply lay awake, silently praying to Varda and Manwë to give me strength, to protect the child that grew in my belly. It was the only thing I could do.

One day, I asked Fëanáro what kind of project he was working at, since it kept him away from me and my bed even in the middle of the night, even in the hours when I needed him the most. 

“It’s … complicated,” he answered, encircling my shoulders with his strong arm, and gently placing a kiss on my forehead. “And I want it to be a surprise for you. You’ll see it when it is finished, and believe me, you will be in awe.”

“Maybe,” I replied, not saying that maybe I would prefer he gave some thought to my present distress rather than planning my future happiness. “But you really can’t tell me anything about your project? Not even a little hint?”

“Mmmmh.” He looked me straight in the eyes, his grey eyes burning like silver fire. “It’s complicated to explain, but I guess I could try. Do you ever think that all,” he moved his free hand in a wide gesture, “that all, sooner or later, might change? Even the most beautiful and most precious things, with time, become marred. Well, I want to create something that will escape such corruption. Something so pure, so perfect, and yet impossible to destroy or mar. Such is my project. It will preserve the real beauty of Arda, and it will be never touched by corruption or time.”

“An ambitious project,” I said. I managed to keep a calm tone, but deep inside me, I could not help but feel a pang of envy for his creative energy, something I completely lacked in that moment. My other pregnancies were different: not even in the most difficult, tiresome moments had I ever lacked the will to create new projects, to see new sculptures emerging under my chisel. My previous pregnancies may have delayed my works, aye, but they had never stopped me from sculpting.

“Indeed,” he smiled at me, and his eyes shone. “But trust me, I’m _so close_. Finally, _yéni_ of research and hard work are going to bear fruit. I’m creating something that has no equal in Arda, and I swear that you’ll be the first to see it.”

I could do nothing but rest my head against his shoulder, and took a long breath. I _knew_ what thought was truly driving it – wasn’t I the person who knew Fëanáro’s heart best, after all? – and I knew too well what was fomenting the voracious fire of his heart. It was that, it was _always_ that, what he had never been able to fully overcome, the thought that always brought the Shadow over him, even in the most joyous moments: the loss of his mother, who lost herself in the fatigue of bringing Fëanáro into the world. 

“I can’t wait to see it,” I replied, and luckily, when I said it, it didn’t sound too much like a lie.

*

“Tell me, my dear, how do you feel when the child is kicking?” Alyanilde had been Fëanáro’s nurse, breastfeeding him when Míriel had slowly felt her fatigue consuming her, and had helped to deliver my own children. In a certain sense, she was the nearest thing to a mother Fëanáro had ever had.

I was just in front of her, and she was gently touching my belly, a look of maternal concern in her brown eyes. 

I hesitated a little. Alyanilde was a friend, of course, and I doubted that she would ever tell anyone how I felt: she surely knew how damaging that would be for Fëanáro’s image, if anyone outside our family knew the state in which my pregnancy had left me. All the same, it was a difficult matter for me to talk about. What would she think of me, regretting my own pregnancy after having desired a daughter for so much time?

Had Míriel felt this way, felt the pride and love for the fruit of her belly mixed with the frustration and impotence of feeling her energy and creativity slowly being sucked away by the child she bore, the same child she had desired so much?

My mother-in-law had been a creative woman, just like me. Her fine tapestries, so beautiful and full of rich colours, still decorated our house and the palace of the High King in Tirion, the last relics that had been left of her. 

“I feel strange,” I replied in the end. “I feel the child kicking, but sometimes, I feel it kicking in two different places at the same time. It never happened again with my other children.”

I met Fëanáro’s gaze, his grey eyes hard like steel. I could sense that he was worried for me, as he had been worried for me all the times I was pregnant. I could sense the fear in his heart, the fear of losing me, of seeing our children grow up without me.

I had the same fear. What would become of me? Would I grew so tired of my life that I could no longer take joy in seeing our children’s smiles, in kissing Fëanáro, in seeing a new statue appearing under my working hands?

I already felt tired and deprived of any creative energy. I only wanted to give birth to our child, so that I could have my life back. If I could return to the days when my body was only mine, and in which I didn’t feel so hopeless and miserable, I would have said _yes_ without any regret.

“You feel it kicking in two different places at the same time? Mmmh,” Alyanilde watched me again, her gaze that lingered on me. I felt so embarrassed under her gaze, of how swollen and big I surely was, with my belly that grew day after day, and my breasts heavy and sore.

“Maybe,” Alyanilde said in the end, gently touching my hand. “Maybe it could be that you bear a pair of twins, and not only one child. The other pregnancies … I remember very clearly that your belly was smaller than now. And it would explain why you feel the child kicking in two different points at the same time.”

Twins?

I heard Fëanáro’s nervous laugh, not so far from me. “Oh, this was unexpected!”

I didn’t reply. I never paid much attention to similar details, thinking that I was already miserable enough without worrying over problems that existed only inside of my head. I never suspected that I might bear not just one child, but two. 

But if it was so, it would explain a lot of things. It would explain why I felt so tired: if bearing a child of Fëanáro was difficult – after all, my other pregnancies had been _less_ difficult, but not without troubles – two had to be a real ordeal. No surprise I felt so terribly tired and sick: it wasn’t just a single child that was taking my life and energy, but two, and all of them with the fire of their father burning in their souls. 

“Oh, my boy,” Alyanilde patted her hand on Fëanáro’s right arm. “Having twins is already very rare, but having a pair of twins _after_ already having five children … Well, I doubt that this has ever happened before. So, congratulations!” she laughed, and squeezed my hand in her own. 

“This is truly a strike of luck,” I heard Fëanáro murmuring, and his hands came to rest on my shoulders. “Twins! I never imagined it, when we … when we conceived them.”

I rested a hand on my belly. I too would have never imagined this. Twins were rare among the Eldalië: nobody of our strict circle of friends had ever had twins. Of course such news would soon be known by the whole Tirion, and I had no doubt that it would only increase Fëanáro’s fame. 

And so it was. That same afternoon, Finwë and Indis came to our house. 

“Congratulations, my boy!” Finwë laughed and embraced Fëanáro, and then me. “I mean, twins? I would have never imagined it!”

“Yes,” replied my husband, “it was quite unexpected for me too.”

Indis merely smiled to us both, but when Fëanáro and Finwë went on the garden to talk alone, she came to me and embraced me in a tight hug. 

“My dear,” she murmured. “ _Twins_! In the name of Eru, that’s a piece of news. You and Fëanáro are going to have seven children, by the Valar! Nobody has ever had seven children in all the history of the Quendi. I’m asking myself what Fëanáro was thinking when he came up with such an idea.” She shook her head.

“Actually, it was my idea.” I took a deep breath. Had it been such a good idea, after all? Aye, I loved the _two_ children in my belly, but if a normal pregnancy was already difficult, I couldn’t imagine the risks of a double pregnancy. And I could sense that something wasn’t right in this pregnancy. If something went wrong, would I be able to sacrifice my life for my children’s?

That was another question I’d no will to answer. 

Indis patted my arm and seemed about to say something when Fëanáro’s voice came from behind our backs. “Aye, it was her own idea. And if you are going to comment on how much I was irresponsible, dear _step-mother_ , please tell me straight in my face.”

I turned towards Fëanáro. His eyes were hard, like blades of grey steel, and his jaw was tight. I could sense that his anger was slowly rising, the air electric like before a storm.

To her credit Indis neither flinched nor turned away her gaze. Instead, she looked Fëanáro straight in his eyes, her chin raised. “I was only concerned with my _friend’s_ health, because I know how difficult pregnancies can be. I have borne four children, and all of them were troublesome to bear, so I can only imagine how our Nerdanel must feel right now. That’s all.”

“First of all, don’t even dare to _imply_ again that I don’t care for the health of my wife.” Fëanáro’s tone was strangely calm, but I could sense the iron beneath it, and the slow wrath, like an underground river. “Second, don’t speak to me again in such a presumptuous tone. I’m not one of your children, and I don’t care if you share a bed with my father, or if you were friends with my mother once, _don’t ever dare to speak to me like that_.”

Although Indis’ expression remained unreadable, I could sense her freeze on the spot. I immediately put my hand on Fëanáro’s arm, in the hope of calming him. I had always been able to calm the fire of his heart when his wrath burned too fiercely, and this time wasn’t different.

I could sense the muscles of Fëanáro’s body relaxing under my touch, but his eyes were still iron as they remained on Indis. She for her part crossed her arms, and spoke with a clear voice:

“Fine. I was only expressing my concern for a friend, that’s all. I never meant any offense to you, Curufinwë. You should know me better.”

“I know you well enough,” Fëanáro merely replied, his face a mask of stone.

Indis turned towards me, and her eyes met mine for a long moment: “You know I’ll always be here for you,” she said in the end. “If something isn’t going right, feel free to tell me.”

“I know.” I smiled at her, hoping to reassure her. It seemed to be enough, for Indis gave me a quick hug and then walked away, searching for her husband in the garden.

I let out a long breath. Could Indis understand the situation I was in at that moment? After all, she too had her own difficulties in her pregnancies, and she had to know how difficult it was for me – and she was a dear friend of mine, who had always been there for me when I needed her. 

But on the other side, I feared that she would become too judgemental against Fëanáro, and lay all the blame for my fatigue on him. I had no will to create more strife between the two of them, another bitter wound to add to their already troubled relationship. I had no wish to see them fighting over me. 

“Are you well?” Fëanáro’s voice shook me from my feelings. Now that Indis was gone, his voice was full of kindness, that kindness I so longed for in all my troubled nights, haunted by nightmares. “I know that the pregnancy is difficult, but just tell me if you need something from me. Please, Nerdanel.”

I simply embraced him, and I closed my eyes as I rested my head against his chest. “Stay with me, Fëanáro,” I said. “I need you. I need you more than anything else. Don’t leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” he replied, and gently kissed my hair. I let out a sigh, and in that moment, surrounded by his arms, I could almost believe that everything was going to be right. 

*  
It wasn’t, of course. 

The delivery of my last two children was troublesome. It was like being opened from inside with a sword. I cried and screamed as Alyanilde tried to console me, telling me to breathe slowly and giving me poppy’s milk to weaken the pain. 

I asked Atarinkë to go and call Fëanáro, for I couldn’t bear the thought of delivering our children without him by my side. My husband came in the middle of the labour, and immediately was beside me, caressing my back, gently pulling my sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. I saw the worry in his eyes, and, amid the rising pain, I wondered what would become of me. 

And in the end, my last two children were born. I felt a pang of disappointment when I discovered they were both males – oh Eru, I had wanted a daughter _so much_ – but it was just for a moment, and soon vanished when I took them in my arms. They were _perfect_ , so little and delicate, with a clump of my red hair on their heads, and the grey eyes of their father.

He laughed and cried at the same time, as I began to breastfeed them, careful in holding them both. I hoped there was enough milk for the both of them, for I remembered too well how Tyelkormo used to dry out all the milk in my breast, when he was a toddler. 

“They are so beautiful,” murmured Fëanáro, caressing my cheek. “They are perfect. I love you so much, my Istarnië.”

He used that name for me only in our most intimate moments, and I could do nothing but smile at his happiness in our children, so little and so perfect. But all the same, even in the middle of such a joyous moment, I felt so tired, tired as I never had been in my whole life. Would I ever regain the happiness and the strength I once had? Or had all my energy been drained during the pregnancy, never to return?

“Aye, they are.” I smiled to him, a heartfelt smile, but a difficult one. “And they will be our last children.”

I couldn’t imagine myself delivering another child, not even the daughter I longed so much for. This pregnancy had already been too much for me. Repeating such an experience would be madness.  
Fëanáro bent, and kissed my forehead: “Aye, I understand. As you wish, my dear one.”

I merely hugged the twins close, and said nothing.

I spent the days that followed the pregnancy in bed, sleeping for much of time, and waking only when the twins needed me. My other sons returned home, for they were far away when the childbirth happened: Maitimo in Valmar, at the court of the High King, Makalaurë in Alqualondë, visiting his Telerin friends, Tyelkormo in the far North, following the Wild Hunt of Oromë, and Carnistir in the far North too, but instead in search of amber to trade. I was happy to have them around again, after so many months of separation. 

But even so, I couldn’t fight away the exhaustion that overwhelmed me. I still lacked my inspiration, and I’d no new ideas for my own statues. This bothered me, for it had never happened before that a pregnancy stopped me from working. 

I had hoped that all my problems would disappear once that the twins were born, but it didn’t happen so. I felt tired, my creativity gone, exactly as I had been when I was pregnant, and the situation didn’t seem to improve. 

Though I slept most of the day, I continued to feel tired. And even worse, the nightmares didn’t stop.

They were always the same: I saw the big fire across the sea, and heard my children crying, but I was always too far away, too helpless, too useless, and I could only stare at the cruel horizon, as the cries got weaker and weaker, until they died in the distance. Then I woke up, and I could do nothing but run to my children’s cradle to reassure myself that everything was fine, that they were well. 

One night, as I saw their little shapes entwined in an embrace, I found myself crying until sleep took me again. Despite all the fatigue bringing them into the world had brought me, I loved my little children so much. I could not bear the idea that something could happen to them, that they could be torn away from me. 

Fëanáro wasn’t with me, that night. He was still in his laboratory, working on his _thrice-cursed_ project. It had to be _truly_ special, if it could keep him away from me, especially now when I needed him the most.

 _Where is he?_ I asked myself, muffling my weeping in the pillow. _He swore to stay with me. Where he is right now?_

Day by day, the Essecarmë of our children drew nearer, and so did the urgency of giving them proper names. 

“I can’t wait for the Essecarmë,” Fëanáro told me one day, while I was trying to overcome my sickness and eat a little of the sweets of lemon and cinnamon that Carnistir had brought me. Normally, they were my favorite sweets, but I felt my stomach closed. “I asked Nelyo to organize the biggest feast he could manage. Only the best, for our last children. I can’t wait to see the astonished faces of the nobility!” he chuckled. “Their mouths will be full of flies by the end of the feast, for they will be gaping in awe.” He sat just beside me. “But come, let’s speak of the important things! I’ve already managed to find the names for the twins. Pityafinwë and Telufinwë. As you said, they are going to be our last children, so I think those names fit them.”

They did. I drank a sip of my tea, saying nothing. 

The truth was that I hadn’t thought about any names for my last children. With my other sons, it had been easy, for I was given some sign of what they one day would become, some little glimpse of their future personality. But none of that had happened with my twins. Only that horrid, grim dream, which continued and continued to haunt me. 

I threw a glance at the cradle in which they lay, their tiny limbs entwined like they were one baby. I took a deep breath.

“Ambarussa,” I said. “Call them Ambarussa.”

Fëanáro raised an eyebrow. “Which one of them?”

“Both of them,” I sighed. “They are one soul in two different bodies. They cannot be divided. Nobody will ever try to separate them.”

Silence fell between us. Fëanáro threw a glance at our kids, still in their cradle, and then at me. 

“Nerdanel,” he said at last. I could sense the uncertainty in his voice. “You’ve always been so reasonable. That’s why … oh Eru, I’m sorry, but I cannot understand what you are thinking. We can’t call them by the same name. They’re already…” he hesitated, but I knew that he was going to say _identical_. 

Despite the sweets I ate, I felt a sour taste filling my mouth. I felt so tired already, so tired of spending my nights alone crying, not sure what I should fear, and yet incapable of chasing the fear from my heart; the last thing I wanted was Fëanáro talking to me in such patronizing tone. As if _I_ was acting in an irrational manner. _I_ , not he, who spent most of our nights far away from me, closed in his laboratory doing only Eru knew what. 

“Fine,” I said in the end, and didn’t try to hide the bitterness in my voice. “Then let one be called Umbarto, but which, time will decide.”

“ _Umbarto_?” He sounded disconcerted. He probably was, but I was beyond care at that moment. “Are you sure? Maybe you meant _Ambarto_.”

“Umbarto I spoke, yet do as you wish. It will make no difference,” I replied dryly. My heart felt heavy. Any mother wished only the best for her own children, but what could a mother do when she saw only fire and darkness in the future of her child? I felt so helpless, and this only increased my bitterness. 

Fëanáro made a face, but he said nothing. _Yéni_ later, I asked myself if something would have changed between us, if he had just asked me what was going on, why I was saying such things. Maybe everything could have been wholly different. 

But it’s easy to be wise, looking at the past.

*

Luckily enough, my strength had returned a little for the day of Essecarmë, enough to permit me to walk and converse with our guests. Even so, I soon grew tired of the chattering of the people, wanting only to close myself again in my bedroom for a long, comforting sleep. It was the only thing I could do, since the inspiration for my sculptures still eluded me, and my laboratory, once my favorite room in our house, had become unbearable to visit, a bitter reminder of happier times.

Fëanáro noticed my discomfort, for that evening, when all our guests had finally gone and we retired in my chamber, he knelt beside me where I sat on the bed and watched me with grey eyes full of worry.

“Are you feeling well, Nerdanel? I watched you at the feast.” He hesitated. “The look in your face … You look so tired, my dear.”

I could sense the fear in his voice. I was tired, yes, and I could hear his unspoken thought: exactly as his mother had been tired after bearing him. She had slowly let that tiredness consume her, until she had passed to Mandos in her sleep.

I’d born him seven sons. I couldn’t deny that the experience had left me exhausted. I couldn’t deny that I was far from being happy.

I touched his face, and I took a deep breath. “I’m better,” I said. “I was left without strength, but I can feel it returning to me. I’m not going to die. I promise you that.”

I closed my eyes. The mere idea of the dark Halls of the grim Vala scared me, but deep down, inside of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder if one day my sadness would become so unbearable as to make me long for their peace. I silently prayed that this would never happen. But deep within me my fear remained.

When I opened my eyes, Fëanáro seemed more relaxed. He was still worried, of course, but I could sense that his fear had been soothed a little. 

“Well,” he touched my hips, his lips raised in a half smile, “I’m happy to hear that. But you aren’t full well. There is something that troubles you, is there not?”

“Aye,” I murmured. “Fëanáro, I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not happy.” I paused. How could I ever manage to explain to him how I felt right now? The sensation that something wasn’t right, and that maybe it never would be? My constant nausea and exhaustion, my lack of inspiration and interest in all the things that once brought me joy? “And I don’t know when I will be happy again. _If_ I will ever be happy again.”

Fëanáro remained silent for a moment, then he replied, “Nerdanel, I don’t know what I can say to you, but … I remember that once you told me that happiness is not something we search for, but rather something that we build slowly, day after day. And so–” he hesitated. “Can’t you build your own happiness? I mean, you have me, our sons, and everything you wish. One word, and all the finest marble and metals you desire for your sculptures will be yours. I could give you everything you wish. It is not enough? Can you not feel happy with what you have?”

I sighed. I remembered having said something similar, once. That’s why I didn’t fancy being called _the Wise_ : wise people had no right to commit mistakes or failures, or to regret their own words. And I made too many mistakes, faced too many failures, my so-called wisdom backfiring on me too many times, to be truly the _wise woman_ that most people claimed me to be.

It was in such moments that I wondered if the name my mother gave me, Istarnië, truly fit me at all.

“It’s not so simple,” I replied. “If it was that simple, I wouldn’t feel this way at all.”

“There’s nothing I can do?” I could sense the frustration in his voice. He grabbed my hips more firmly, like he feared I might vanish between his hands. 

_You could have stayed near me, when I asked you to,_ I thought, bitterly. Despite the love I felt for him, I felt anger rise inside me. _But you didn’t. Is your thrice-cursed project more important to you than me?_

But I didn’t dare to say such a thing. I knew him too well, I knew what he was feeling. I knew too well how he felt when it came to his mother: his sense of inadequacy, that he hadn’t been _enough_ to give her a reason to stay, to live. And he feared not being _enough_ for me too, not enough for me to stay beside him, and our children.

It was that feeling that guided his hands during the long hours of the night he spent working on his mysterious project, I knew. And no matter how angry I was with him, I couldn’t say similar things to him. I couldn’t break his heart in such a way. 

“I told you what you should do,” I merely replied. “That’s all, Fëanáro.”

He let out a long breath, and fixed his gaze in mine. His eyes were burning, now, but it wasn’t the passionate gaze he sometimes gave me, but rather the cold flame of the pain.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured. He shook his head, his usual skill with words gone.

“Aye, you don’t understand. And maybe you never will,” I replied, dryly. 

“Nerdanel,” he said, after a pause. “If I hurt you in some way, please forgive me. I will never do it, not again.”

“No, Fëanáro,” I murmured. “You did nothing. That’s the problem.”

*

Slowly, my strength returned to me. My appetite returned as well, permitting me to taste my favorite sweets again. I still missed my inspiration, but I began to think less and less about how unhappy I was. One day, I woke up with the idea of going to the garden with my sketchbook, hoping that some inspiration would finally come to me. I didn’t come out of it with any ideas for my statues, but somehow sketching the leaves and the trees of our garden made me feel better.

It was later that same day, when I was in bed for an afternoon nap, that the voices of Fëanáro and Maitimo came to my ears from beyond the door.

“You should stay with her,” I heard Fëanáro saying. “You’re her firstborn. She needs you.”

“Well,” Maitimo’s calm, low voice echoed in the hall, “you’re her husband, and the father of her children. She needs you too.”

“Aye.” I could sense the sadness in Fëanáro’s voice. “But I’ve come to the conclusion that she needs you more than me, right now. We–” I heard him taking a long breath. “We had a – disagreement. But _please_.” Now, a sigh. “Don’t leave her alone. Give her a reason to live again, to be happy again. I ask only that of you, son. If you care for your mother, don’t let her come to the same end as mine. _Please_ , I beg you.”

“I will.” I heard Maitimo sighing, too. “You can count on me, father. Don’t worry.”

I closed my eyes and let myself rest for a while. When I opened my eyes again, I found Maitimo seated on the ebony armchair of the writing desk.

“I’m not going to come to the same end as Míriel,” I told him. “I’ve already told your father not to worry about that. But it seems that he didn’t listen.”

Maitimo said nothing, and raised an eyebrow. “If I could ask, what happened between you and him?”

I looked straight in Maitimo’s eyes. They were grey-green, a peculiar, distinctive mixture between my own eyes and Fëanáro’s. “It’s complicated,” I replied. “I told him to stay near to me, that I needed him, and he … he didn’t.”

I still didn’t dare speak of my dreams, not to Maitimo and especially not to Fëanáro. How could I explain to him that maybe the twins had something to fear from _him_? For I didn’t doubt that the fire that threatened them in my dreams was no mere coincidence, not when they were born from the Spirit of Fire.

I hardly dared to believe it myself. It was too horrible to think about, the mere idea that the father of my children, the only love of my life, could somehow threaten them. 

I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to erase it from my mind, to pretend the dreams had never happened. But still, my fear remained, buried somewhere inside my mind. 

Maitimo’s expression didn’t change, but I knew he was surprised by my words. He could make himself unreadable to everyone else, but not to me, who had carried him for an entire year in my belly. “He said to me that he stayed with you as much as he could,” he said, his tone hesitant. 

I sighed. I had no doubt that Fëanáro found himself guileless from his own part. For a moment, I wondered if I should tell Maitimo the truth, tell him how I felt when Fëanáro was far away from me, too busy working on his own project to stay with me, when I needed him the most.

But then, I decided I should say nothing. He would surely tell Fëanáro about it, and no matter how bitter I sometimes towards my husband, I had no wish to argue with him about such matters, especially not when I knew what impulse truly droves his works. 

In all honesty, after such a difficult pregnancy, I had no wish to argue about _anything_.

“It wasn’t enough,” I said in the end. “Sometimes, when I needed him, he wasn’t here. That’s the point.” I sighed. “I miss him.”

Without even noticing it, I put in those words all the love I felt towards Fëanáro and all my despair at his absence during the long, difficult nights of my pregnancy, all the anger I felt when I was alone as well as my longing for him. It had been a long time since our bodies had last joined in the pleasure of love. 

When I met Maitimo’s gaze again, I could see comprehension in his eyes. “I understand,” he murmured, and gently touched my hand. “Is there nothing I can do for you?”

How kingly he looked at that moment, with the light of the afternoon in his red hair! Maitimo was my son, but he had not been a child anymore for some time now, and he had grown into one of my dearest friends. I knew that if there was someone I could blindly trust, it was Maitimo. 

My gaze fell on the cradle of the twins. Now it was empty, for I’d left the Ambarussas with Alyanilde, but all the same, my recurring nightmare returned to my mind, and the memory of fire and a distant cry, too far for me to rescue my children. 

“You’ve already done much, telling Fëanáro that I needed him,” I said in the end. “But yes, there’s something you can do. And please, Maitimo, _please_ , swear to me that you will do all in your power to fulfill it. I beg you.”

There was a slight movement in Maitimo’s stony face, nothing more than a flash of light in those eyes that were neither mine nor Fëanáro’s, and he nodded slowly. “Well enough, mother,” he said. “Tell me what I should promise you.”

I squeezed his hand. “Protect your little brothers,” I said. “All of them, but especially the twins. You’re old enough to be their father. Be truly a second father to them, and don’t leave them alone. Protect them against anything, against anyone. That is what I ask of you.”

“Aye.” Maitimo rose, still holding my hand. He placed a delicate kiss on my fingers. “I swear that to you. I’ll do anything to protect my little brothers. You’ve nothing to fear, for I will always be with them.”

I leaned out and embraced him, letting out a sigh as Maitimo’s arms encircled me. For a moment we stayed there, in a not dissimilar way as I’d embraced him so many times, when he was still so little to be lifted and held. I gently caressed his hair. 

“I know I can trust you,” I murmured. 

“It will be fine,” he said. “It will be all fine, Nana.”

I merely nodded, and tightened the embrace. I still had hope, then, that everything would end well, that the problems I had with Fëanáro were nothing serious, easily mended with time.

I was wrong, oh, how I was wrong. I didn’t heed those first rifts in our marriage; I didn’t realize that they were slowly creating a wound too deep to be easily closed. 

That realization came only when I saw the Silmarilli for the first time, and saw by their light the fire of the obsession in Fëanáro’s eyes.

There were many arguments then, many painful, bitter arguments, until I realized I could stay with him no more, that Fëanáro was no longer the young man full of passion and hope and fire I had married. He was still full of fire, but now it burned with a more sinister flame. 

He never hurt me, not physically, but words can sometimes wound more deeply than stones or hands. When I finally left him, it was with bitterness in my heart.

It wasn’t an easy decision. Some of my sons didn’t agree with me. Atarinkë called me unreasonable, adamant in his decision of supporting his father. Maitimo refused to pick a side between us, but in the end, he followed his father, too. 

It was from others that I heard of Fëanáro threatening Nolofinwë with a sword. I didn’t follow him in his exile like our sons did; I remained in Tirion, between my statues and my unfinished works. Now he spoke openly of rebellion against the Valar, of abandoning Aman to build new realms in the East Lands. When people talked to me of such things, I simply looked away.

And then the Long Night came, and the first blood stained the soil of Aman, and the whole world burned under Fëanáro’s fire. 

But even so, it was years and years later, long after Fëanáro was nothing but ash in the wind, that I realized I had been wrong in one thing: I had called my son Umbarto, the Fated, but it was not just my last children, my sweet little twins, who fit that name. 

Fate came, in the end, for all of my sons.


End file.
